


shadows of the mess you made

by homelesshats



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and if that doesn't excite you, harry's mom is also in this, so there's something for everyone, there's a pug in this story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:21:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1788691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homelesshats/pseuds/homelesshats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry might be the long-lost heir to the British throne. He just wants to get to Paris. Somewhere along the way, he finds a home.</p><p>Or, alternatively, an Anastasia AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shadows of the mess you made

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah. this fic is happening. i'm really happy it's finally finished and ready for people like you to read it, but i'm gonna miss slaving over it day-in and day-out. 
> 
> this fic is based completely on the wonderful movie anastasia (with meg ryan *heart eyes*). most of the plot is entirely from that movie, just altered a bit for the sake of harry and louis. somehow, i got it to work. 
> 
> and this definitely would not have happened without my amaaaaazing beta [eliana](http://markmelove.tumblr.com), and my wonderful girlfriend [alysen](http://tomlinslaw.tumblr.com). i love you both so so SO much. <3
> 
> the title is from the song mykonos by fleet foxes, and this is [lillian gish](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lillian_Gish). enjooooy!!

The night had begun with glowing lights that twinkled throughout the corridors of the palace. Harry danced with his sister while the band set up their instruments and warmed up. His mother had told him that if he behaved, she’d let him stay up with the adults. His father had given him a kiss on the top of his head and told him not to eat too many sweets. It was the night of the annual Solstice Ball, and all of the servants were placing tables where they needed to be and dressing the walls in garland, wreaths and other lavish decorations.

People began to arrive, wearing dresses and suits that had Harry’s eyes wide. Suddenly, the hall seemed filled, and the ball was in full swing. The attendants danced like birds in flight, moving together in graceful steps. Harry tried not to over-eat the sweets that were laid out on long, wooden tables, but the smell that wafted through the ballroom was too much to resist. He began to sneak bites of pastries as the night drifted on.

At one point, Gemma caught Harry sneaking a sweet candy and plucked it from his fingers, tossing it at one of the guests. Harry gaped at her as she ran from him, giggling and tossing her hair over her shoulders. He laughed and began chasing his sister around the thrones, nearly running into one of the servant boys from the kitchen. His mother caught him in her arms as he raced by and he squirmed as she lifted him up.

“Don’t tell your father, but I have an early Christmas present for you,” she told him in a whisper as she pulled a small music box and necklace from her dressing robes.

“Mum,” he gasped, a bright smile on his lips, and watched as she placed the tip of the necklace into the lock of the box. It unlocked with ease, the lid lifting open to display a tiny man and woman dancing on the inside. The tune that played as they spun was a lullaby that his mother had sung for him when he had been smaller.

When she placed the necklace into his hand, he read the word encrypted into it carefully: “’ _Paris_.’” He looked up in disbelief at his mother, a wide grin across his face.

“Really?” Harry gaped. He’d been asking his mother for a trip to Paris, it seemed, since birth. Before his mother could answer, he gave her the longest, warmest hug he could, then let her place the necklace around his neck so it could lay proud against his chest.

The time passed by in a joyous blur, filled with dancing and laughing and eating. Harry found himself having the most fun he’d ever had.

Without warning, the hall became very dark, every light suddenly turned off, and silent. Harry skidded to a halt, the smile falling from his face.

“Gemma?” He called out. “Mum?”

Loud screams and crashes from below the top floor of the hall sounded around the palace. He yelled for his mother again, confused and scared, as hundreds of other voices passed over his. Harry seemed to be lost among the crowd.

His mother found him crowded into a corner, just behind a tapestry of their family. She grasped onto his hand so tightly that it began to hurt. She led him for a moment, unsure of where to go and unsure of who exactly was attacking them. Harry was sure his mother was beginning to cry; the very thought of his own mother being so unhappy made his own vision become blurry.

“Your highness!” A voice belonging to a small boy who approached them. The queen looked down at the boy as he spoke. “This way!”

Only a bit wary of the small servant boy, Harry’s mother followed him to the back corridors and then to a small room. The boy slammed the doors behind them, locking them without pretense, before rushing to the opposite end of the room. He knelt down to uncover a small door in the wall.

“It leads to the outside of the servant’s quarters,” he explained to her, the last of his words overlapping with the sound of pounding on the locked doors across from them. “Go on, go!” The boy fearlessly pushed Harry and his mother toward the small opening, then stood in front of them, as if to protect them.

Harry’s mother helped him into the passageway first, murmuring to him that it would be alright. As he hurried his way through, she followed along behind him.

In a blur of motion, Harry and his mother fled to the nearby train station. They raced for the closest train as the people standing on the back of it attempted to help them onto it. Harry reached small, sweaty hands toward the man holding out his own hand and tried to keep up with the squeaking wheels of the train. The man clutched onto Harry’s hands, pulling him upwards, just as Harry’s feet collided with the edge of the train. Slipping on the frozen snow that collected along the bottom, Harry tumbled back onto the tracks.

He fell onto his back, the icy ground unforgiving beneath him. Harry’s face slammed harshly against the ice. His vision turned black, and the only thing registered in his consciousness was the sound of his mother’s voice calling out his name.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

A chill ripples through Harry as he follows the owner of the orphanage towards the front gate, the freezing wind plastering snow against his face. Even dressed in thermal underwear, thick socks tucked into his boots, a long trench coat, a muffler, and matching gloves, the cold winter still makes Harry’s bones ache.

He’ll never understand how Ms. Thompson can leave the mansion in nothing but a long dress and her slippers.

“Bye, Harry!” A chorus of younger children yell from a second-story window, and Harry turns back to wave at them.

“Goodbye! I’ll miss you!” He calls to them, only to be spun back around by the length of his scarf. His case fumbles around the snow as he drags it along.

“Are you listening to me, Harry?” Ms. Thompson growls, clutching onto his muffler. Harry grins, sheepish, and shrugs. She sighs. “I said, I’ve set up an interview for you with one of the newspaper factory’s managers. He’s expecting you in an hour.”

Harry frowns at Ms. Thompson as she leads him out of the gates.

“The newspaper factory?”

“Yes, Harry, I’m afraid you’ll have to get a _job_ if you expect to survive,” she huffs, then closes the gate behind him. “Good luck, Harry,” she tells him, but it’s not filled with the kind of sadness that Harry feels in his chest. It’s hollow, and emotionless, and it makes Harry wonder how this woman became the head of an orphanage.

It’s the day after Harry’s eighteenth birthday – well, the day that Ms. Thompson had assumed was his birthday, since he couldn’t really remember – and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s learned to fend for himself, after nine or so years in an orphanage, but the realization that he’s an adult, that he has to pull himself together and live independently, hangs over him like a heavy rain cloud. He can no longer wait for someone else to feed him, care for him and keep him out of trouble.

With nervousness humming under his skin, Harry begins to walk toward the center of London.

Each face he passes is a grimace, even the faces that are surrounded by glittering jewelry and fur coats. He wonders if everyone becomes like this as they grow older; if the front that most people put up is something that they’ve learned from going through this world.

Unconsciously, he fiddles with the charm on his necklace, wading through the streets with a case that refuses to cooperate. He’s not sure where he’s heading, but he knows where he _isn’t_ going.

Harry has known for a while that he’s not staying in London. He has no ties there, there’s nothing left for him in the city. It’s not like he has much of anything, anyway, but staying in London is like trying to move five spaces forward and landing ten places behind. There’s something else out there for Harry, and it’s nowhere near London.

His feet lead him downtown, where the people there are just as cold and shivering and miserable as Harry. Things haven’t been the same since the Styles’ family’s murders. At least, that’s what the mailman, Oliver, has told Harry. England used to be a peaceful place. It used to work smoothly and harmoniously under the Styles’ rule. Harry finds that to be a bit unbelievable, as the England he knows now is nothing more than corruption and dreary, overcast days.

He comes to a stuttering halt when he realizes that he’s arrived at the train station. With a glance at his necklace, ‘ _Paris_ ’ glaring back at him, Harry leaps into the queue.

Once he’s at the front, he pulls his worn, thin wallet from his coat pocket.

“One ticket to Paris,” he mutters, looking up at the man working the ticket window.

“Passport, please,” the man says after a moment, and Harry falters.

“P-passport?” He furrows his eyebrows.

“Yes, sir, you need a passport to leave the country.” The man’s tone is gruff. When Harry doesn’t retrieve any sort of passport or international papers from his coat, the man moves on. “Next in line,” he calls out, and Harry is shoved out of the way.

He stumbles into a woman with a scarf wrapped around her head and begins a slew of apologies until she interrupts him.

“You need a passport, young man?” She says, her voice laced with warmth that makes Harry’s skin prickle from the cold. When he nods, she tugs him closer and whispers into the lapel of his coat, “There’s a man who can help you. Louis. Go see Louis Tomlinson. He wanders around the old palace.”

Harry stares at her for a moment, deciding whether or not he should trust her. When she shoos him away, he realizes that this is his best option – and his only option. With one withering glance over his shoulder, Harry begins to head in the direction of the Styles’ palace.

He walks straight for the grounds as if he’s been there a million times before and arrives at the front gates of the palace. He passes through the metallic border easily, feeling an uneasiness in his stomach that twists and turns his insides. Taking a deep, calming breath, he continues on to the towering double doors at the front of the palace.

Curiosity taking over, Harry pulls at the locks, looking for a way in, but with no avail, he heads around the edges of the building. He follows along the icy bricks until he finds a boarded-up servant door. The wood is termite-eaten and wet from the snow, so when he pushes against it, the wood gives and Harry stumbles into the other side. With a glance back at his case, he leaves it on the outside of the building, knowing no one would have the patience to try to steal it, anyway.

Wind passes through the empty palace, leaving the interior brisk and chilled. The atmosphere sends an eerie tremble down Harry’s spine, a thick and heavy feeling settling into his chest. Steadying his breathing, Harry walks down the long, dark corridor.

“Hello?” he calls, but there’s no answer. He wonders how big the palace is, if anyone outside of the corridor would even be able to hear him.

“ _Hello_?” His voice carries a bit further, but still, no one answers.

Continuing on through the corridor, walking without direction, he arrives at an archway. On the opposite side of the arch is an enormous ballroom with paintings lining the walls and large glass windows that are somehow still intact. Sunbeams from outside shine onto the musty red carpet, showcasing the collected dust. A staircase leads down to the first of two floors, and Harry stands at the top, one hand clutched onto the marble railing. The carpet has fallen away from the stairs, leaving a yellowing marble behind.

Harry thinks he can see stains of red along the steps as it descends down, but then he blinks and the stains are gone.

He tiptoes his way down the staircase, careful of his own steps and makes his way onto the dance floor, his boots thumping along the floor like drums. As a slow smile spreads across his face, Harry spins once, then twice, a familiar tune playing inside his head. He pretends to have a dance partner, going through the motions he somehow knows – he bows, holding the hand of his imaginary partner, and kisses their palm. He holds the air in front of him, as if it were their waist and hand, and dances around the columns and paintings, his shadow bouncing along the walls and floor.

At some point, he closes his eyes and begins to hum. The tune reverberates around the ballroom, echoing with his footsteps, and, for a moment, a familiar warmth settles over him. An ache pounds in his chest, but it has him laughing and throwing his arms into the stale air as he dances with memories in his mind.

“Oi!” A voice penetrates through Harry’s thoughts, bringing him back to the dusty remnants of what, just a moment ago, had felt so real. He trips over himself and falls onto the steps behind him, a loud thud sounding throughout the hall.

Harry looks up with wide eyes toward the voice and finds three men standing at the top of the staircase he’d just walked down. One, the farthest from Harry, has a dark complexion and raven-like hair, a pair of glasses perched on his nose and a bag over his shoulder. The man to his right is paler, with a kind face, the hint of a beard around his jaw, and a small birthmark peeking up from under his collar.

The shorter man of the three begins to cascade down the marble steps, his hands resting easily in the pockets of his trousers. The piercing blue of his eyes makes Harry’s breath hitch.

“What are you doing in here?” the man asks, drawing closer to where Harry is splayed out and helpless on the bottom steps of the opposite staircase. The other two follow after him, their fluid movements making them seem more curious than angry.

Harry clears his throat and fumbles to his feet, brushing off his front.

“I was just – do you –” he stutters, watching the man step closer until he’s only a few feet away, and it makes Harry feel just the tiniest bit nervous. “I’m looking for a man named Louis.” He shoves his hands into his coat pockets.

“Congratulations.” The man smirks. “You found him.”

The other two men sidle up beside him, one readjusting the glasses perched on his nose, and Louis crosses his arms as he registers Harry.

“You couldn’t have just waited outside?” He sighs, shaking his head, “Or left a note?”

Harry stares at Louis, annoyed.

“I need a passport, and a woman told me to find you. This place is abandoned, anywa—“

“Still, you shouldn’t be trespassing. This is all technically government property,” Louis retorts, a knowing, sarcastic smile on his lips, and Harry is ten seconds from smacking the smile right off of his face. Or kissing it off. Whichever would work best, he’s not very picky.

“You work for the government, then?” Harry frowns at Louis and he thinks he sees the man with the glasses smile.

Louis opens his mouth to reply, but when he stops, Harry raises an eyebrow. Louis is gaping at something behind him, his eyes moving back and forth between Harry and whatever it is. Harry is about to ask if there’s some sort of monster behind him when Louis leans toward the other brunette.

“Liam, do you see what I see?” he whispers, placing an arm around Liam’s shoulders.

Liam glances up, his brown eyes questioning, then Louis grasps his chin to point him in the direction of Harry. A realization dawns on Liam, his features brightening like a lantern, and he turns to the other man, tapping his shoulder.

Suddenly, the three of them are whispering in rushed voices, Louis waving his hands around at one point, and Harry finally turns around to look at what the hell they’ve been comparing him to.

A giant portrait of the royal family stares back at him, which is no surprise because there are dozens within this hall, so Harry turns back around only to be greeted by Louis, who is suddenly much closer to him. Harry blushes.

“What – why ar—” Harry stutters as Louis begins to stalk around him like a vulture, and Harry’s eyes follow him, forcing him to spin on his heels, “Why are you _circling_ me?”

Louis’ eyes settle back on Harry’s and he gives him an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, erm… What was your name again?”

“I never said,” he hesitates for a moment. “It’s Harry.”

"Harry." Louis says his name with reverence. Like it's something precious. "Sorry, you just -- you look an awful lot like -- " He points toward the painting, his index finger singling out the face of the young prince.

Before Harry can reply, Louis throws his hands up.

"Never mind," he says. "You were saying something about a passport?"

Harry hesitates. He can see Liam and the other man watching the two of them and whispering amongst themselves.

“Yes. I need one so I can go to Paris.”

"Paris?" Louis yelps, his eyebrows shooting up. He whips around suddenly toward his two men, before turning his attention once more to Harry. “Alright, let me ask you a question – Harry, was it? Is there a last name that goes with that?”

Harry curls in on himself, bringing his fingers out of his pockets to tug at the small pendant around his neck. He begins to play with it, the locket dancing around his fingers. When he speaks, his voice sounds meek.

“Well, I… This is going to sound mad,” Harry sighs. “I don’t know my last name. I can’t really remember anything before I was eight. The doctors said it was head trauma, or something.”

Harry looks back up at Louis. Louis' expression isn't one of utter disbelief, but one of pure sympathy.

“You can’t remember _anything_?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, and Harry shrugs uncertainly. He recalls nights where he awoke in cold sweats, anxiety rattling through him.

“No, there’s nothing,” he mutters, his locket catching the sunlight. A smile flickers over his face, “Except for Paris.”

He clears his throat, turning back to Louis and the other two.

“So, can you help me, or do I need to find someone el—“

"Well, Harry, you see," Louis starts, moving to Harry's side and tugging at one of his curls.

Harry squirms at the unexpected intimacy and pushes Louis away gently.

"The lads and I..." Louis beckons toward Liam and the other man. The pair of them are mimicking Harry and Louis, Liam tugging at a lock of the man's hair while they both giggle. "We happen to have exactly four tickets for Paris."

Louis pulls the tickets from the pocket of his trousers, as if to prove his honesty.

When Harry reaches for them, in an attempt to see them more closely, Louis keeps them out of his reach.

"The thing is, the last ticket we've got is for _him_ –" Louis takes hold of the back of Harry's head, turning him so he can see the painting once more. "Prince Harold."

“Oh.” Harry blinks. Suddenly he’s being whisked up the stairs.

“We’re planning on reuniting the queen with her long-lost son,” Liam tells him as they move toward the second floor.

“You actually look a bit like him, if I’m honest,” Louis whispers into his ear.

“What?” Harry gives Louis an incredulous look.

“You’ve got those signature green eyes,” the tan man says, already waiting at the top of the stairs.

“And those curls.” Liam wiggles his eyebrows at Harry.

“Not to mention your lips,” Louis says with a smirk. He releases Harry’s arm and as he pulls back a curtain to reveal another painting. The tapestry displays the young prince, with his deep brown curls, skin like porcelain, and wide green eyes that seem to stare back at Harry.

“He’d be around your age,” says the man with glasses, a soft murmur compared to Louis’ bright tone.

Harry lifts his arm out of Liam’s grasp.

“Are you lot trying to tell me you think _I’m_ the prince?”

It’s quiet for a moment until Louis steps closer to him.

“All I’m trying to say is that I’ve seen hundreds of boys around the country and not one of them looks as much like the prince as you do.”

Harry waits for a punchline. He looks at Louis and waits for him to laugh at Harry, waits for him to say what an idiot Harry is for even listening to their lies, but it doesn’t come. Unsure of their intentions, Harry begins to walk away.

“You’re all mad!”

He’s starting down the staircase when the man in glasses catches his elbow.

“Think about it,” the man says in a quiet tone, his warm brown eyes taking the chill from Harry’s bones. “No one found the prince after the palace was attacked, and _you_ can’t remember anything from before you were a child. His only family is in Paris, and _you_ want to go to Paris.”

“Have you ever considered it?” Louis asks, peeking out from behind the man’s shoulder.

“What? That I could be royalty?”

The three of them nod.

“Well, it’s hard to picture yourself as some kind of prince when you’re practically sleeping on the floor every night, but… sure. I suppose every lonely boy out there would hope he’d end up being a prince.”

The other man drops his hold on Harry’s arm.

“And maybe somewhere, there’s one lonely boy that _is_.”

For a moment Harry lets himself believe them. He wonders if there’s a real reason he’s never been able to feel at home, to feel complete. He ponders the idea that it might be possible that he could’ve survived the attack, by some force of fate, and he’d been on his own this entire time, waiting for someone to lead him back home.

“Lads, it’s getting late, and we’ve got a train to catch tomorrow,” Louis says, breaking through Harry’s thoughts. He pulls the other men down the steps, leaving Harry alone at the peak of the staircase. “Really wish we could help you, love, but the fourth ticket is for the prince. Good luck!”

Harry watches them as they descend the staircase, then slowly turns to face the painting behind him once more.

 _It really does look like me_ , he thinks, reaching up to grasp onto his locket with cold fingers.

With a glance at his necklace, and a deep breath, Harry begins to race down the steps to catch up with the three men that are making their way across the hall.

“Louis! Louis, wait!” He nearly trips on the last step but catches his balance on the ballroom floor. The three of them slowly turn back to him, eyebrows raised, and Harry sighs.

“I-If I don’t remember who I am – well, who’s to say I’m _not_ a – a prince.” Harry swallows. “Right?”

Louis nods, failing to hide his smirk.

“And if… If I’m not the prince, the queen will know right away and it’ll all just be a big misunderstanding,” Harry shrugs, attempting to convince himself as well as the other three.

The tan man peeks at Harry from above his glasses.

“Not to mention, if you really are him, you’ll have your family back.”

“Zayn’s right.” Louis grins, his blue eyes glistening from the sunbeams shining in from the windows. “Either way, it gets you to Paris.”

Harry swallows past the lump in his throat and nods. He isn't sure he can trust them, but he knows he has to.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

The amount of time it takes to settle into their train seats is entirely too long. Harry’s never ridden a train before, and he finds it strange that he can feel the ground moving beneath his feet, but it’s an experience, anyways.

Louis, Zayn and Liam had brought him back to their place for the night, where he’d stayed in Zayn’s bed.

_(“Are you sure it’s alright if I sleep here?”_

_“Yeah, of course,” Zayn had reassured him._

_“Not like he gets much use out of his own bed, anyways,” Louis had mocked, which had drawn a snicker out of Liam, but Harry chose to ignore whatever inside joke the three of them were clearly in on.)_

They had awoken early the next morning to head for the train station. Louis had somehow managed to have a “close friend” forge a passport for Harry, which had been delivered to him at some point in the middle of the night. Harry would rather not know how Louis had managed to convince someone to create a passport for him on such short notice.

"Your case is taking up too much room, mate," Louis says as he places his luggage into the compartments above their seats.

"Everything I own is in there," Harry says, a bit of a bite to his tone.

Louis slams his own bag on top of it in response.

“Hey!” Harry pushes him with one hand, making Louis stumble into Liam.

“Really, lads?” Liam says, exasperated but smiling.

Once all of their cases are packed into the compartments, Louis plops down onto the seat next to Harry.

“Stop slouching,” Louis says.

Harry only lies down farther in his seat, tugging distractedly at his locket. He spares Louis a glare and proceeds to stick his tongue out.

Louis rolls his eyes so far that Harry’s sure they’ve shot to the back of his head.

“It’s not very princely to sit like a caveman.”

“And how would you know about what is and isn’t ‘princely’?” Harry furrows his eyebrows, annoyed.

“I make it my business to know,” Louis whispers, so close that Harry can feel the words tickling his neck. Harry scrunches his nose at Louis. Louis sits up, nonplussed.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says.

Liam and Zayn watch them, amused grins on their faces.

“Louis,” Harry asks, shining a bright, fake smile at him. “Do you really think I’m royalty?”

Louis tilts his head to the side, giving Harry a look that sparks an unsettling warmth inside of him.

“You know I do.”

Harry swallows, choosing to pivot around in his seat so that he faces the window instead of Louis.

“Then stop pushing me around or I’ll have you thrown into a dungeon.”

Zayn’s chuckle is the only sound in the cabin for a few seconds, then Louis sighs with a huff, before standing and leaving their seats without a word. Once the door is closed and the lock clicks, Liam shuffles in his seat and Harry can feel a pair of eyes on him. He looks over at Liam, raising his eyebrows innocently, and Liam gives him a sympathetic smile.

“Go easy on him, yeah?” Zayn says, like there’s some kind of telepathy that he and Liam have developed. Harry turns toward him. Zayn hasn’t even looked up at Harry, his eyes skimming over the hardcover book he has settled in his hands.

“Why would I do that?” Harry pouts.

“He’s only trying to help, Harry,” Liam tells him as he moves one arm behind Zayn’s shoulders. “Louis is… He doesn’t operate like the rest of us. He’s different, I guess.”

“Special,” Zayn supplies with a knowing smirk, his eyes still trained on the ink of his novel.

“Yeah. Special.” Liam nods solemnly. “He doesn’t open up easily. He’s been that way since forever.”

“Trust us, we’d know.” Zayn rolls his eyes.

“We’ve known him – what, ten years?” Liam tilts his head to glance at Zayn and only then does Zayn look up, meeting Liam’s eyes and giving him a soft smile and a nod.

“Not wanting to share his feelings or whatever has nothing to do with him being rude to me,” Harry scowls, slumping in his seat.

Liam brings his attention back to Harry, smiling like there’s something happening that Harry hasn’t quite caught onto yet.

“He’s trying,” Liam says, his voice tender. “He cares, Harry, really. He’s not heartless.”

“He just thinks you’re a bit annoying,” Zayn grins, having turned back to his book.

Harry scoffs, brushing his hair out of his face and gazing at the snowy fields outside of the window.

“The feeling’s mutual,” he mutters.

Harry sees Liam and Zayn give each other a vague look, but he chooses not to acknowledge it. Suddenly, Louis slams open the cabin door and the three of them stare up at him in surprise.

Louis leans down to whisper into Liam’s ear, but Harry can hear him over the rumble of the train.

“We’ve got a problem.”

 

 

 

Harry drops his bag onto the cold, wooden floor and steadies himself as Liam, Zayn and Louis have a very intense conversation with their eyes. Liam opens his mouth to speak, but Louis’ voice comes out before he has a chance.

“Well, this is nice.” Louis grins nervously, placing his hands on his hips. “Right, lads? It’s nice.”

Harry raises an eyebrow.

“This is a luggage cart.”

Louis stutters for a moment, his hands dropping to his sides as he stares at Harry, then shrugs with a devilish smile.

“I just didn’t want you to have to sit with _commoners_ , your highness.”

“So this wouldn’t have anything to do with our passports?” Harry smirks. “Nothing to do with the fact that everyone else’s is in red, but ours are blue?”

Louis gapes at Harry.

Harry had seen countless other passengers’ passports as they’d gotten into their seats, noticing that theirs were off. He’s surprised Louis hadn’t realized it before.

Harry hums and watches Louis step over to a crate.

Harry squints at the writing along the side and lets out a bleat of laughter.

“You might not want to sit on that,” Harry warns him.

“And why not?” Louis crosses his arms.

“It’s full of explosives, Lou,” Zayn chimes in, settling beside Liam’s legs as Liam sits on a large, metal safe. “Says on the side.” He nods toward the box Louis had sat on.

Louis leaps from the wooden box beneath him, turning to read the words on the side only once he's a safe distance away. He perches on a small plain box to Harry's right.

“Could’ve bloody warned me,” Louis glares.

“I _did_.” Harry narrows his eyes at Louis.

“Yeah, _after_ I sat on the damn thing.” Louis turns his nose up, a petulant frown on his pink lips, and the urge to kiss the frown away hits Harry like a boulder. He wills himself to turn from Louis, hiding his crimson cheeks.

He catches the smiles on Liam and Zayn’s faces when he looks away and he wants to ask them what the hell is so funny, but he knows that the answer is likely one that he doesn’t want to hear.

“So, what do we do now?” he asks, after a soft silence rests over them. “Are we going to spend the entire train ride in the luggage cart? What if someone walks back here?”

“It won’t take long to get to Hastings,” Liam tells him. “We’ll just have to get off before they suspect anything.”

Liam places a hand on Zayn’s shoulder as Zayn pulls his novel out of his coat picket. Liam’s fingers brush against him, like he’s only got his hand there to remind himself that Zayn is still there. “From Hastings, we can try to bribe a fisherman to take us across the Channel to Boulogne-sur-Mer and hopefully we’ll have enough money left to afford a rental car,” Liam nods, like he’s convincing himself.

“That could take twice the time, Liam.” Louis stares at Liam in exasperation.

Liam, with a glare as icy cold as the harsh winter outside, snaps at Louis.

“It’s not my fault that _you_ decided to trust that con-artist with our passports, Louis. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d just listened to Zayn.”

“Zayn wanted to pull cash out from our arses and pay some dodgy worker at the post office to forge passports. We didn’t have the money nor the time for that, you know that. Excuse me for not putting us into debt.” Louis wrinkles his nose at him.

Zayn groans.

“Shut up, you two. What’s done is done, there’s no sense in fighting about it.” He glances pointedly at Louis, then at Liam. “Besides, it’s not polite to bicker like children in front of royalty,” he says with a tiny smirk, tossing a wink towards Harry.

Harry decides he kind of likes Zayn.

 

 

 

The sun is setting on the horizon when they arrive at Hastings. It doesn’t take long for them to jump from the luggage cart once they’d stopped moving, but they wait along the outskirts of the train station while passengers depart the train for another hour. Harry almost falls asleep against a tree.

Lucky for them, Zayn knows someone (who knows someone, who knows someone, who knows someone…) that can give them a ride to Boulogne-sur-Mer, though it’ll take all night. Harry’s pretty sure Louis whines about it for a solid forty-five minutes.

Ant, the owner of the boat, is nice enough. He and Zayn are obvious friends – they greet each other like brothers – and Ant treats the rest of them as if they are, too. His boat is small, but there’s a lower deck where they settle in for the night, and Harry’s just happy to have a place to sleep.

He can hear Liam and Zayn shuffling around across from him and when he glances at them, the light of the moon shining in from the window allows him to see that they’re curled into each other, arms and legs intertwined.

A steady, solid weight lifts from Harry’s chest. He’s never met anyone like him before. Boys who like other boys. It had always unnerved him when he was a child, noticing how the girls and boys of the orphanage had begun to hold hands and share stolen glances with one another. There were a few times when Harry had developed a crush on one of the boys that he shared a room with, but he knew he could never express how he felt. It’s just something he’d learned growing up; boys like him made people feel uncomfortable.

But there are people like Liam and Zayn, comfortable with who they are and who they love. So comfortable that they'd allow a complete stranger to see them together. Watching them together makes a smile spread across Harry's face.

“You should smile more.” Louis’ whisper echoes in Harry’s ear as he lays on the ground beside Harry’s head, his winter coat covering him like a blanket.

Harry glances up at him, his smile fading somewhat, feeling Louis watch him wearily.

It takes Harry a moment to speak – he’s far too distracted by the way the moonlight is making Louis’ skin practically glow, the iridescent blue of Louis’ eyes staring back at him unguardedly – and when he does, his voice is quiet and hoarse.

“Yeah?” He bites on his bottom lip, a feeling unknown to him bubbling up inside of his chest, warming him from the inside out.

“Yeah.” Louis blinks at him, something in his gaze that Harry can’t decipher, and then Louis grins. “Good night, princess.” He flops on his side to face the walls of the lower deck.

Harry’s grateful that Louis can’t see his face, because a blush blossoms on his pale cheeks. He’s certain Louis can hear the thumping of his heartbeat, though, as he drifts into sleep.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

Louis’ hair is tickling Harry’s nose when he wakes up. He holds his breath to keep a sneeze from rattling through him, and lets his breath out slowly as he opens his eyes. He can see Louis’ closed eyelids in front of him. The air from his breath makes Louis' hair flutter, and Harry pulls away carefully, only so far that he isn’t completely sidled up next to Louis.

There’s light pouring in from the window and Harry assumes it’s morning, if the chill is anything to go by. Liam and Zayn are still asleep, their heavy breathing matched, and when Harry glances over at them, he can see that Liam has an arm around Zayn. Zayn’s head is settled gently on Liam’s chest, his own limbs cradling him.

Harry lays back down, still facing Louis, and watches him for a moment, feeling like it wouldn’t be proper to wake him.

Louis’ eyelashes cascade small shadows against his cheeks, and Harry wants to count each and every one of them. He wonders if Louis' eyes are as bright in the morning as they are in the shadows of night.  He wonders if Louis actually meant it when he said Harry should smile more. And he wonders if the obnoxious Louis he’d created in his own mind wasn’t actually the real Louis at all.

Louis’ mouth is parted slightly, and though his pink lips are a bit chapped, but Harry has the urge to lean over and press his own lips to Louis’. 

“Stop staring, it’s not polite.”

Though Louis whispers, the sudden sound makes Harry flinch.

Harry clears his throat quietly, so as not to wake Zayn and Liam.

“Sorry.”

Louis opens his eyes, giving Harry a tired half-smile.

“S’okay.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, settled in a comfortable silence. Harry opens his mouth to speak, but hesitates, though the worrying thoughts in the back of his brain continue to nag at him.

“Louis,” he murmurs. “What if I’m not the prince? What if all of this is for nothing?”

The rumbling of the boat’s engine fills the silence that comes after Harry speaks, but it still leaves him feeling uneasy, his face flushed from Louis’ constant gaze.

“It’s not all for nothing,” Louis tells him in a raspy voice. “You’ll still be one step closer to your family.”

“Yeah, but –” Harry tucks himself deeper into his coat, trailing his eyes to the floor. “But what if I don’t even have a family anymore? What if they’ve all forgotten about me?” He glances back up at Louis with unsure eyes. “Maybe there’s a reason I was left on my own, and they don’t want me anymore. Maybe they _never_ wanted me.”

Louis keeps his eyes trained on Harry’s fingers, the way they’re tugging nervously at his locket, his voice quiet but tight with honesty as he whispers.

“Who wouldn’t want you?”

Harry barely hears him, his heart pounding so loud in his ears. He barely catches Liam rustling from sleep.

“Nngh. Morning.” Liam yawns. Harry looks over to see Liam sitting up, gently retreating from Zayn’s embrace.

It feels as if he and Louis have been in a bubble of their own for hours, but Louis breaks it when he speaks.

"Good morning, Li. Sleep well?"

“Like a baby.” Liam smiles sarcastically, then stretches his arms above his head. “Do either of you know where we are?”

When they shake their heads, Liam stands up with a grunt and crosses over to the small window on the side of the boat. Liam studies the outside for a minute before turning back to them with a shiver.

“Well, it seems we’ve docked,” Liam says.

“Brilliant.” Louis sits up, crossing his legs and wrapping his coat around his slender shoulders. “Can’t wait to get off this bloody boat.”

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

France is colder than Harry expected.

Of course, he knows it’s early February and Europe is almost always cold during the early Spring. But the chill is still a bit of a shock when he and the group emerge from the lower desk, teeth chattering. 

It’s gorgeous, though, he has to admit that. Lots of people milling around as Louis drags him after Liam and Zayn to wherever they’re meant to get a rental car. He’s still not sure how the three of them know where to go and what to do, but he pegs it on the thought that they've probably traveled a lot more than he has. The thought only makes him a bit jealous as he glances at the architecture they pass.

Snow begins to fall as they steer themselves around the waves of people. Harry halts mid-step when the four of them step into an area that’s less crowded.

“Harry?” Louis stops when Harry does, Liam and Zayn skidding to a halt just a few steps ahead. Louis furrows his eyebrows as Harry lifts his head and watches the snow fall from the sky, letting flakes fall into his eyes and mouth.

Harry doesn’t reply, just concentrates on the falling snow catching on his face. Each flake rests itself on him before melting quickly, small droplets collecting on his skin. For a faint moment, he begins to remember something – loud laughter and warm coats, hot cocoa and blurred visions of things that make Harry’s fingertips tingle – and then he’s opening his eyes, turning back to Louis with weary eyes.

Louis is watching him carefully, his hands shoved into his coat and a glint in his eyes.

Harry gives him a sheepish smile.

“You’re so odd.” Louis grins back, shaking his head. “C’mon, princess. Let’s get going, before the garage closes.”

Liam and Zayn continue to lead the way and when they all pile into the small office attached to the side of the garage, it’s cold from the chilly air outside. Harry can hardly feel his fingertips inside his pockets.

The exchange is subtle and mysterious; Harry can hardly hear what they're saying, much less make sense of it.

He manages to catch a sum of money being exchanged over the counter, and the woman behind it hands Liam a key and nods toward a door that will presumably lead them to the garage. Harry barely has time to shoot a friendly wave at the woman before Louis is turning him around toward the door, shoving him in the direction the other boys are walking off to.

A small car, fit for four, sits in the garage, among other larger vehicles. He settles himself into the back seat, the leather squeaking ungratefully.

Louis sits next to Harry as Zayn places himself in the passenger seat. Harry swears he can see Louis shoot a glare at Zayn before Louis turns back to Harry, his gaze softening.

"Are we ready, mates?" Liam asks.

"Yes, Liam, of course we're ready," Louis says, groaning.

Liam starts the engine, beginning the last leg of their journey to Paris.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

“Fictional or non-fictional?”

“Fictional.”

Harry furrows his eyebrows, picking at his bottom lip with cold fingers.

“Does she have a large family?”

Zayn leans against his seat, peering back at Harry as he answers with a grin.

“Yes.”

“Hm.” Harry purses his lips. “Is she wealthy?”

“You could say that, sure.” Zayn shrugs.

Harry pauses for a moment, eyes narrowed at Zayn.

“Is she _married_?”

Zayn nods, grinning wider. Harry must be getting warmer.

“Did she marry for love?”

“Of course,” Zayn says patiently, his eyes twinkling. Harry thinks he can hear Louis sigh, but he refuses to acknowledge the sound.

“Was it love at first sight?”

Zayn smiles, but it’s softer, now, and that’s enough of an answer for Harry. He’s thinking of another question when Louis interrupts his thoughts.

“For fuck’s sake, it’s Elizabeth from Pride and Prejudice,” Louis says, scowling.

Harry smacks Louis on the arm.

"It’s not your turn," Harry says. It's silly, but he actually feels disappointed. “You’re no fun.”

Louis narrows his eyes at him in return, but doesn’t answer, just glares back at Harry with such ferocity that Harry thinks he can feel the stare running right through him.

“I have an idea,” Liam says, clearing his throat and shooting the two of them a hopeful smile in the mirror. “Why don’t we teach Harry a bit about his family before we get there? Maybe he’ll remember things if we talk about them.”

“That’s a great idea,” Zayn tells Liam. He smiles at Liam with pride, and Liam beams back like it’s his birthday.

Harry perks up in his seat, folding his hands together in his lap. He glances at Louis and finds him staring back, his gaze intense. Harry thinks he should ask him what his bleeding problem is, but Zayn grabs his attention.

“So, to start things off,” he begins. “You had one sister, Gemma. She was older than you, I’m not sure how many years –“

“Two,” Louis fills in. “She would’ve been twenty-one in December.”

Zayn nods, then continues.

It’s like that for another four hours or so. Harry can’t tell how much time passes as the three of them start to relay information to him on the forgotten childhood they all hope is his.

He learns that the queen was doting and compassionate. The king had been charming – _“Unlike you, you’re a bloody pain in the arse.”_ The prince had a cat, named Toulouse, and a dog named Winston. The prince had been a well-behaved child that had sometimes gotten into trouble when he would play with the palace’s servants.

According to Liam, Harold was rather fond of the servants – he had respected them as much as his own family. Kindness had just been in Prince Harold’s nature; he’d been incredibly sweet and intelligent. He was loved by his family and the servants alike, regardless of his regal lineage.  

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

They stop in Senlis for a quick lunch, and Harry can’t believe how beautiful every bit of France is. Throughout the car ride, he’d gaped out the window at every group of hills and length of forest. They hadn’t gotten to drive through many towns, so he’s glad they’ve stopped at this one.

There are gigantic churches with steeples that reach the sky and townhouses that hold bakeries and dress shops and Harry can’t get over how incredibly sweet everyone is.

Harry thinks he could get used to France.

They’re sitting in the middle of a restaurant, where the cold weather can’t get to them, and Harry is certain he never wants to eat anything other than French cuisine. Zayn and Liam decided to buy ice creams, even though it’s _winter_ , and had off-handedly mentioned something about going for a walk before leaving Harry and Louis on their own.

“I don’t know how I put up with those two,” Louis says.

When Harry looks up at him, though, there’s a fond smile on his lips.

Harry smiles, too, despite himself.

“They’re really brave,” Harry murmurs, pushing a stray sliced carrot around his plate.

“After all they’ve been through…” Louis trails off, and Harry glances up at him. He can see a hint of sadness in Louis’ eyes, but there’s admiration clear on his face. “They have a right to be proud of what they’ve got.”

Harry’s heart swells in his chest.

“Everyone does, you know? Everyone should be able to love who they want to love.” Louis folds the napkin in front of him into a smaller triangle as he continues. “Love isn’t supposed to be this cut and dry thing. ‘Grow up, fall in love, get married, have children, do the same thing all over again.’ Love is spontaneous; it’s mischievous and sneaky and it can happen at any moment.”

Louis glances up at Harry and Harry’s breathing stutters.

“Sometimes when you’re not even paying attention.” Louis drops his gaze, his shoulders tense.

“People treat it like a list of things to accomplish and then check off. If you’re a boy, you meet a nice girl who’ll cook and clean for you like some kind of slave. If you’re a girl, you meet a strong boy who goes to work and buys things for you while you sit there and let him make your decisions for you. The boy takes the girl out on dates, he courts her, and if she likes him enough, he proposes to her. She plans the wedding and he spends his last days as a free man out with his friends, pretending that this is the life he wants to live. They get married, they have children, and they teach them the same steps that they were taught.”

Louis traces his finger around the rim of his wine glass, staring into it like he’s lost in the blood red of it.

“Or the boy might meet a couple of boys who aren’t afraid of who they are, and they’ll show him that it’s okay to be different – he’s not an abomination. And anyone who thinks so is wrong.” He picks up the glass, turning it in his fingers. “And he’ll make a business with them and watch them fall in love again and again and it’ll feel a lot like torture, but he’ll be happy for them and sorry for himself.”

Harry watches Louis for a moment until their eyes meet.

“Sounds like a decent life,” Harry says with a touch of irony, raising his eyebrows.

“I s’pose.” With a dramatic sigh, Louis rolls his eyes. “It does get lonely, watching the two of them with each other, but.” Louis shrugs both shoulders and hides a smile. “I think I’ve gotten used to it.”

Harry watches Louis with sadness in his eyes.

“To them, or being lonely?” Harry asks.

Louis just blinks at Harry, seeming to be at a loss for words.

“Hello, you two.” Liam steps over to the table, flanked by Zayn. “C’mon, let’s get going. We’ve still got about an hour to go.”

Without another word, the two of them head back to the car with Liam and Zayn, and Harry begins to wonder if he’d overstepped his boundaries. He remembers them telling him that Louis doesn’t open up easily, but the fact that he did, even just a bit _–_ with _Harry_ – makes his skin prickle with goosebumps.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

Harry wakes up, curled into his seat, with his head on someone’s shoulder. He can hear two voices in the front seat speaking, but they’re hushed and low, and he can’t understand them.

With a small, noiseless yawn, Harry blinks open his eyes and peers up at Louis with eyes foggy from sleep.

Louis seems to be asleep, his head resting against the leather of the upholstery, his thin pink lips opened slightly. Harry can see his eyelids flutter when the car rides over a few bumps, but then Louis settles into sleep again. His arm tightens around Harry's shoulders.

Harry isn’t sure how he’d been maneuvered into this position. He suspects his body moved on its own – he’s always been a sleepwalker – and Louis had just gone with it.

But with the way Louis is angled, turned into Harry protectively with his hand barely a few inches away from Harry’s, he can’t help but think they may have come to this position on other terms.

Harry watches Louis openly as he takes in shallow breaths, his chest heaving. For a moment, he wonders if watching Louis as he sleeps is a bit inappropriate, but his thoughts are silenced when Louis wriggles slightly, the hand that’s limp on Harry’s thigh finding his shirt and clutching onto it. He whines something unintelligible, and it might be the most precious thing Harry's ever seen.

After a moment, Harry turns back into Louis’ chest and closes his eyes, one arm settled around his waist, readying himself to sleep a bit more. He can’t help the smile on his lips, or the way his heart feels like it’s too big for his chest. And if Zayn or Liam happen to glance back at them and coo like a pair of proud mothers, Harry doesn’t notice.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

When Harry wakes up again, Louis is the one driving.

Liam seems a bit on edge sitting next to Harry, his foot incessant in its tapping against the car floor. Harry would’ve expected him to be sound asleep, since he'd stayed up the whole night. Zayn keeps trying to steer Louis' wandering eyes back toward the road with warnings and nudges.

“You alright?” Harry whispers to Liam.

Liam sighs, nodding at Harry.

“I just get anxious when Louis is the one driving. He’s not the best driver.”

“I heard that,” Louis snaps at him, trying to turn and glare at Liam, before Zayn grabs his chin and holds it toward where it should be – toward the road.

Harry giggles at the two of them, blushing when Liam turns to him with raised eyebrows.

The rest of the drive consists of Zayn and Harry trying to keep Louis' volume down to a reasonable level, shushing Louis so Liam can get his well-deserved rest, and Louis protesting that Liam will have loads of time to nap before they have to meet the queen.

With the reminder that Harry will have to present himself to the queen – fucking _royalty_ – he starts to fidget, tapping his fingers and twisting the necklace that hangs from his neck. It’s only then that he takes a look at himself, his worn clothes and the smudges of dirt on his boots. He hasn’t brushed his hair in two days. He breath must smell absolutely awful.

God, he’s a complete joke.

"This was a dumb idea," Harry says, sharp and loud against the swirling thoughts in his head: how daft he must seem, how pathetic and poor he'll look in the palace, how needy he'll appear to the queen. Yet he's actively trying to convince himself he's related to her, the bloody _queen_.

“Harry?” Louis glances at him in the rearview mirror. “What are you on about?”

“Look at me, Louis. I’m just some poor orphan boy who’s going to look like – like some con-artist trying to trick the queen into thinking I’m her own son. For fuck’s sake.” Harry runs shaking hands through his hair as he tries to breathe. “I’m going to look like a right idiot… But I guess that’s because I _am_ , aren’t I?”

The car comes to an abrupt stop in the middle of a dirt road. All around them are trees as far as the eye can see, and Harry can tell that there are three pairs of eyes on him before he even looks up. He keeps his gaze on the leather seats.

“Harry,” Liam says, and it sounds so patronizing.

Harry needs to breathe, needs to stop lying to himself about things he knows aren’t true. He needs to go back to London, where there’s – hopefully – a job waiting for him. But he probably botched that up when he didn’t even show up for the bloody meeting.

There’s a pause, then the car shuts off and the driver’s door opens. Someone yanks Harry out of the car. His eyes turn to meet Louis’, and the determination set in his gaze should be unsettling, but it only makes a shiver run down Harry’s spine.

"Listen to me," Louis says, his voice much softer than Harry had been expecting, gentler than the brash tone Harry’s become accustomed to.

“You’re not an idiot. And you’re not some ‘poor orphan boy’. You’re trying to find your family, and this is the best chance you have.”

Harry feels his breath catch in his throat as Louis continues.

“It’s not stupid to take risks, Harry. You’re not stupid for wanting something that you can’t even remember having. You deserve to have a family.” He drops his hand, but his fingers stay on Harry’s hip, softly pressing into his shirt. He repeats in a murmur, “You deserve that.”

Louis looks up, his eyes meeting Harry’s, and his lips settle into an encouraging smile.

“And I’m not letting you go back to London. Because even if you aren’t a Styles, you don’t belong there.” He shrugs. “If… If all of this doesn’t end up working out, Harry, the lads and I are going west. Maybe to America. And, I guess, it’d be alright if you –“

“Lou, Niall is going to be well pissed at you if we show up late,” Zayn calls from inside the car, knocking on the window.

Heaving a sigh, Louis knocks once against the window in reply, then looks back at Harry.

“Just – you deserve so much, Harry. Stop doubting yourself.” He smiles half-heartedly. “All right?”

Without waiting for Harry to answer, Louis opens up his door and drops back into the driver’s seat. Harry's doesn’t focus on the heat Louis' fingers left behind or the way his heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. No, he just steps back into the car and settles into his own seat, ignoring the imploring look he gets from Liam.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

Paris is beautiful. It’s vast and gorgeous and Harry’s a bit overwhelmed by it as they drive through the cobblestone streets. Zayn and Louis had traded places before they’d driven into the city, because Zayn knows the roads to Niall’s better than Louis. Harry still has no idea who Niall is, but Liam describes him as an energetic Irishman who loves a good drink and knows his way around a boulangerie.

Harry stares at Niall’s house as they pull up. It’s small and quaint, but it has an air of elegance compared to the other houses along the street. There’s white paneling snaking along the outside, with lavender window shutters that look clean and bright. Flower beds nestle against the rim of the house, and just inside the front gate sits a small pug. When Louis steps out of the car, the dog immediately begins to bark and paw at the fence.

“’Ello, you.” Louis grins at the dog, kneeling down once he’s inside of the fence. He scratches the pug’s head as it pants, its face rubbing up against Louis’ shin. “Have you been a good pup? Huh, huh?” He laughs as the pug barks in reply, its body lifting off the ground with the force of it. “Yes, yes, you’re such a good girl. Yes, you are.”

“Tommo!” A loud shout comes from the doorway of the house, the sound making Harry flinch before he exits the car.

More shouts trail after the first, and Harry can hardly understand a word of them. It's mostly yelled phrases like "what 'ave you been doing, man" and "can't believe how long it's been", Zayn and Liam join in with Louis and the man, who jumps up and down in excitement when he hugs Louis. After their luggage is lifted from the boot of the car, Harry finds himself standing to the side and feeling useless while the other four reconvene without him.

“And who’s this?” the stranger asks, still linked with Louis and Zayn, arms draped over their shoulders. He stares straight at Harry and Harry thinks he should feel intimidated, but the man has a wide grin on his face and a pair of pleased, sparkling blue eyes pointed at him.

“This is Harry,” Louis says, then turns to Harry with a smile that’s blinding with the happiness behind it. “Harry, this is Niall. He’s the queen’s advisor.”

Niall laughs, big and loud.

“Hardly. The woman never asks for advice, ya might as well call me a lady’s maid.” Niall steps away from the clump of them and pulls Harry into a brief, tight hug. “’S good to meet ya, Harry.”

“You, too.” Harry gives Niall a smile once they part.

“Right, then, let’s get inside. You’re just in time for lunch.” Niall claps his hands before skipping haphazardly back into his quaint house. As Harry’s eyes follow him, he notices that Niall’s not wearing any shoes, only a pair of long socks, and one has drooped down to his ankle.

“He’s a bit odd, isn’t he?” Harry says, but can’t help the slow smile creeping onto his face as Louis laughs.

“Yeah,” Louis replies, reaching down to grab his and Harry’s luggage with no effort at all. Harry follows Louis through the threshold.

“He’s nice, though. I like him,” Harry admits.

Louis' eyes twinkle up at Harry when he glances over his shoulder, then they continue on through the house in pursuit of Niall.

Lunch is nothing special, some kind of French soup that Niall’s chef makes, but the conversation between the four men surrounding Harry makes up for the lack of creativity in the food.

“Things just aren’t the same without you lads,” Niall says, about a half an hour after they had sat down to eat.

“You mean the queen doesn’t help you play pranks on the servants?” Zayn smirks at Niall, arching an eyebrow.

“I never said that.” Niall grins and slurps his soup. Niall is the most peculiar advisor Harry’s ever seen. (Not that he’s seen many royal advisors, but still.)

“You’re kidding.” Louis gapes.

Niall shakes his head.

“The queen’s a right laugh once she’s opened up to ya. And she can lie through her teeth like it’s a sport.”

He goes on to tell a story of how he and Anne – the queen – had hidden twenty different alarm clocks in the kitchen while the chef was cooking dinner, and the meal had to be delayed two hours because he had nearly fainted while trying to figure out where all the ringing was coming from.

By the end of lunch, Harry feels a bit more at ease. He still has a feeling of apprehension in his gut, but with Niall telling entertaining stories about the queen and Louis by his side, Harry thinks he might be able to do this.

But, after lunch, Niall starts asking Harry questions he doesn’t feel prepared to answer. He thinks he’ll mess something up, he’ll end up saying the wrong uncle, or he’ll get his own birthday wrong, but Niall is kind and listens easily and Harry talks with him like he’s known him for ages.

Liam and Zayn have laid down on the sofa, draped over each other and dozing off, as Harry and Louis sit close on the opposite loveseat. Niall is curled up in the armchair as he watches Harry curiously, observing the way he speaks and reacts to everything. He should probably feel like he’s being scrutinized, under immense pressure from Niall’s gaze, but Niall carries himself in a way that has Harry relaxed and open under the speculation.

“Well,” Niall says after Harry answers his umpteenth question. He purses his lips uncertainly. “I have one more thing to ask about, but…”

When Niall doesn’t continue, Zayn glances up from where he’s been looking at Liam, who’s fallen asleep on his lap.

“But?” Zayn prompts.

Niall chews on his lip contemplatively, then sighs.

“If you don’t get this one right, it won’t influence anything, but Anne has been wanting me to ask this.” He sits up, placing his tea cup on its saucer with a subtle ‘clink’. “How did you escape from the palace the night you and Anne were separated?”

Harry can feel Louis grow rigid next to him, but he’s too enraptured in his own thoughts to pay attention to Louis. He can feel there’s something deep in his mind trying to answer the question, but he can’t quite pinpoint it. He knows he’s had dreams of a burning building with tall, dark shadows racing around him, but there’s never been any point to them. He’s always pegged them as insignificant nightmares. Now, though, he thinks there may have been something there.

“There was… a boy,” Harry whispers, furrowing his eyebrows. “He opened up a wall.” He pauses, then laughs at himself, shaking himself from his memory. “Sorry, that’s – that’s ridiculous.”

When Harry turns his gaze back to the four of them, he can see, from the corner of his vision, Louis staring at him with wide eyes. He doesn’t ask why.

“So…?” Zayn murmurs, breaking the deafening silence.

Niall repositions himself in the armchair as he answers.

“Well, I s’pose he _did_ answer every question.”

Zayn ‘whoops’ loudly, shooting an arm up into the air. The noise wakes poor Liam, who hasn’t slept a full hour since before they left England.

Niall grins at the two of them, giggling at Liam’s disgruntled mumbling.

“So, when can he meet with the queen?” Liam asks, once Zayn’s apologized to him a good ten times for waking him up.

“That’s the thing,” Niall mutters. “He can’t.”

Louis, finally pulling himself back into the conversation, squawks, “What?”

“Anne isn’t exactly keen on meeting every bloke who claims to be her son, you know,” Niall says, sighing. He looks pained.

“Can’t you convince her?” Zayn asks, annoyed.

“I…” Niall trails off. He sits up, eyebrows mimicking the action. “Well, er. How d’you lads feel about the Russian ballet?”

There’s silence that drapes over the room, a quiet, collective confusion that has them all staring at Niall with curious eyes.

“Because Her Highness and I… We absolutely _love_ the Russian ballet.” He punctuates the sentence with a not-so-subtle wink.

Before Harry can celebrate, though, Niall stands up to take the tray of tea cups back to the kitchen and asks Harry to follow. Harry holds his breath as he follows Niall, watching as he places each cup and saucer in the rack of unwashed dishes by the sink.

“What are you planning on wearing, then?” Niall asks, perching himself on the counter.

Harry glances down at himself, at the tattered, old coat he’s had since he was sixteen, and the ratty brown boots he’s somehow managed to wear down in just two months. He looks back up at Niall with a sheepish expression.

"Right-o. I guess we'll just have to take a little shopping trip, won't we?" Niall grins.

 

 

 

“I don’t think aquamarine is really your color,” Liam notes hesitantly as Harry emerges from the changing rooms. He's got on a suit, white button-down with trousers and a blazer as black as the night sky. The suit is rather basic, but Niall had placed a light blue bowtie around the collar. The bowtie is his favorite part of the outfit, he's got to admit.

“You’ve also said he doesn’t look good in red, orange, and green. What other colors are there, Liam?” Louis glares at him, his mouth turned down in a petulant frown.

“Lads, honestly.” Niall waves his hand at them, then returns his attention to Harry. “I like the shoes – they’re simple, but not _too_ simple.”

“You should be a fashion designer, Niall, that was brilliant,” Louis teases. It earns him a smack on the back of his head.

“I liked the first one,” Zayn chimes, picking his head up off of Liam’s shoulder. “This jacket doesn’t make you look as broad in the shoulders.”

Liam nods.

“I’m not sure I like any of the trousers, though. They all seem a bit plain.”

“Well, Liam, what do you want him to wear? Polka dots?”

Another smack sounds throughout the small clothing boutique.

While Louis glowers at Liam over Zayn’s head, Niall steps over to Harry and fixes the lapels of his suit jacket, looking at Harry thoughtfully.

“Go put on the last one I gave ya, but replace the jacket with the first one. And keep these shoes.” Niall pats Harry on the chest, then pushes him back into the direction of the changing rooms.

When Harry returns to the four of them, he swears he can hear the breathing in the room come to a staggering halt. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or a bad thing until he glances up at their faces.

“Fuck,” Louis stutters, his mouth dropped open, and Harry blushes a deep red.

Niall looks like he’s about to cry with joy and claps his hands together.

“Ya look amazin’, Harry.”

“I think you mean _Prince_ Harry.” Liam grins.

Harry rolls his eyes, because he’s certain he doesn’t look anything like royalty. But with the way all of them stare at him, he’s beginning to think he might be wrong…

 

 

 

Niall buys him four different outfits. Harry tries to insist that he doesn’t need any more than one, but Niall already has them in bags before he can finish his sentence.

He wears a navy blazer and white trousers when they go out for dinner, his hair styled far more than he’s ever had it done before, and he feels like he’s going out with movie stars; like he’s a regular Lillian Gish.

They go to a local club with a boisterous band and dancers that swing their dresses and tap their feet against the polished floors. Niall orders them a round of champagne, to celebrate – even though nothing has _happened_ yet – and he treats Harry like one of the group, though he’s known him for less than a day.

Harry can sense Louis’ eyes on him during dinner, but each time he looks up, Louis relocates his gaze to something else; his champagne glass, the dancers, Niall. Every time Louis doesn’t meet his eyes, Harry feels his heart sink deeper in his chest.

Towards the end of dinner, when they’ve all finished and are only killing time before they have to leave for the theatre, an impish blonde woman steps over to their table and taps Harry on the shoulder. He’s certain she can’t speak English, but he understands the body language she’s using, loud and clear. With a second of hesitation, and one or two glances at Louis, Harry takes the girl’s hand and leads her out to the dance floor.

He won’t say he doesn’t enjoy it; he likes dancing, and the girl is pleasant and giggly and he can tell she doesn’t take this too seriously – how could she, when she’s dancing with someone who has two left feet? But he can definitely say that he enjoys it a lot more once Louis’ fierce eyes finally catch his gaze.

Harry plops back into his seat as the song finishes, catching his breath before taking a swig of the champagne in front of him. He doesn’t look at Louis, but he can feel the weight of Louis’ gaze on him as he swallows.

Harry smirks.

“Alright, lads, I think it’s about time we head back to mine,” Niall says, standing first. The rest of them follow him, like ducklings after their mother, as he places a check on the table and proceeds to the door. 

It takes another hour or so for the five of them to get ready for the ballet, and Harry is the last to leave the house. The other four are already out, leaning against Niall's car as they wait. Louis and Zayn seem to be having a heated conversation when Harry shuts the front door behind him.

“You need to tell Harry,” Liam whispers as all of them fall into silence as soon as Harry enters their vision.

“Tell me what?” Harry fidgets with his waistcoat.

Louis takes a step forward, holding out his arm to Harry.

“That you look amazing.” He tells Harry, his gaze trailing up his body and only stopping once he meet Harry’s eyes. “Beautiful, really.”

"Thanks," Harry says quietly, shuffling his feet. His heart is pounding.

“A’right, lovebirds, c’mon.” Niall grins. “We’ve gotta get going, or we’ll be late.”

 

 

 

The seats they purchased are so far up, Harry feels like he’s going to vomit.

Louis tries to distract him, telling Harry all about the ballet: where the dancers enter, how the dancers are always so graceful, and how the music embodies each moment with grace. It works for a while, but then Harry is back to chewing on his bottom lip desperately, trying to focus on anything other than the fact that whatever happens after the show tonight will decide his fate. After tonight, he’ll either have a family, and he’ll finally belong somewhere, or he’ll be back to square one. He’ll have to find someone that will give him kindness that he doesn’t deserve, somewhere that won’t feel anything close to what he imagines a home might feel like.

But Louis had mentioned something about America, hadn’t he?

Harry tries to envision what America could be like. He thinks about what it would be like to live with Louis, Zayn and Liam. Maybe he could live the life he’d always dreamt of, like the ones he’d read about in the newspapers. Maybe they could rent a penthouse in New York City and make millions on Wall Street. Maybe they could go all the way to Hollywood and Harry could become a famous actor, his face plastered on every massive billboard.

Or maybe Liam and Zayn would run off on their own and elope, and it would just be Harry and Louis. Harry could come back to a warm house, hang his hat and coat on the rack, and be able to say that he’s home.

“Harry.” Louis leans close when the lights around the theatre flash. “Do you see the balcony over there? On the left?”

Harry searches for a moment, then spots Niall sitting in a balcony seat, and he nods.

“The woman sitting there, on the other side of Niall,” he whispers, so close to Harry he can feel Louis’ breath on his heated skin, “that’s Queen Anne.”

With a rush of flutters in his stomach, Harry blinks again and again in disbelief. Queen Anne. The woman he hopes is his mother.

“She’s gorgeous,” he says, and Louis laughs quietly.

“Yeah,” Louis agrees, reaching over to Harry’s lap, where Harry has been wringing his hands together uselessly for five minutes. He grasps one of Harry’s hands in his own, “I suppose we know where you got that from, then.”

Before Harry can react, the lights turn down and the music begins to play.

 

 

 

An hour later, the lights come up and Harry is near tears. He’s not ashamed to say he can get quite emotional at times, but crying after the ballet may be pushing it a little bit. He wipes at the corners of his eyes as Louis squeezes the hand he’s held throughout the entire ballet, and tells him that it’s time.

Louis rushes him through the crowd. Harry’s breaths are thick and his heart pounds and he keeps telling himself that vomiting on the queen is _not_ an option, but the bile continues to rise up in his throat. He tries to tell Louis to stop, to wait, to slow down, but the words don’t form, so his only other choice is to stop in the middle of the corridor, his hands shaking as he drops Louis’ grasp.

“Harry?” Louis whips around, eyes flashing from curiosity to worry. “Harry. Are you alright?”

“No, I –” Harry reaches for the wall behind him, but he’s too far from it and he’s left flailing for something to hold onto. Louis is the closest thing, so he grips onto Louis’ suit jacket, pulling him closer. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Yes, you can.” Louis' voice penetrates the confusion in him.

_He really believes in me, doesn't he?_

Harry doesn't understand how Louis is so calm about this whole thing. It’s like he’s never doubted Harry for an instant.

"I know you can. You're... Harry, I need to –"

“Louis!”

Harry looks up at the sound of Niall’s voice coming from a door at the end of the corridor.

“She’s wantin’ to leave soon, you’d better hurry your arse up,” he stage-whispers to Louis, then the door clicks shut again, leaving only the two of them.

“Right, okay.” Louis turns to Harry, trailing his hand down to where Harry is still clutching at his blazer and holding his hand tightly. “I’m gonna go introduce you properly, alright? Promise you won’t go anywhere?”

Harry hesitates, but after a second, he nods slowly, keeping his eyes trained on Louis’.

As Louis swivels away, reluctantly letting go of Harry’s hand, Harry calls out his name.

“Yeah?” Louis’ hopeful eyes practically stare straight through him.

“Just… thank you. For everything,” Harry mutters, sounding like an absolute bloody idiot.

Harry's stomach twists as Louis turns away again, and stills when Louis looks back at him, hand poised on the doorknob.

"Harry?" Louis asks, voice a wisp.

"Yes?" Harry asks, and the second it takes to speak isn't fast enough. Harry steps closer. "What is it?"

“Er. Good luck,” Louis breathes, holding out a hand between the two of them. It takes a second for Harry to register it, and when he shakes Louis' hand, both of them grip like they never want to let go. He can only murmur a quiet ‘thank you’.

Harry watches as Louis disappears into the next room, hesitating for a moment before his curiosity gets the best of him. Harry listens to the conversation going on in the balcony, ear pressed against the frame.

The conversation starts with Niall lying to Louis, telling him that the queen is no longer seeing anyone, and that he needs to leave. When the queen says that she's seen enough Prince Harolds to last her a lifetime, Harry's heart sinks so low he can feel it in his stomach. But – as they'd planned – Niall continues trying to convince Louis to leave, and Louis defies him, speaking to the queen on his own. He explains to her – raw conviction in his tone – that Harry is the real prince, honest, but the queen orders him away.

“Just _listen_ to me, please,” Louis pleads.

There’s a pause, and then the queen speaks once more.

“Louis, is it? I’ve heard of you. The con-man from England who’s been holding auditions for an authentic Prince Harold Styles. For a man to act the part of my son – like this is some sort of _play_. This isn’t jest, this is my life, and I’ve had enough men like you traipsing into it like they have a right to, trying to con me into believing some – some stray boy is my son, so that I’ll give you my fortune.”

“No, this isn’t _like_ that, I swear –“

“Enough!” The queen orders. “Get out of my sight.”

The next thing Harry knows, the door is jolted open and Louis is on the ground, thrown down by two guards who had been standing on the opposite side of the door.

“It was all a lie,” Harry says. He can hardly believe the words that leave his own mouth.

“No, Harry, listen –“

“You lied to me to – to get some reward? Is that all this is to you? A scheme?”

“No! Fuck, please, Harry.” Louis rushes to his feet, stumbling toward the staircase after Harry. "It was – it did – it did start out like that, but it's different now."

Harry laughs without humor, bites his lip hard against the tears hovering in his eyes.

"All those things you said, about the boy and about the opening in the wall – it was real, alright? You're the _real_ prince! Flesh and blood!"

“Shut up already!” Harry spins around. “You got me! You did it, you tricked me! And I believed you. And I fucking –” Harry hides his face in his hands, shaking his head in embarrassment. “I can’t believe I actually…” _Fell for you._

Harry lets out a despairing, dry sob before turning back toward the staircase. The red he's seeing is doing a poor job of distracting him from the devastation in his chest. 

“Harry, wait!” Louis reaches out again, trying to grasp onto Harry’s hand.

“Leave me _alone_ ,” Harry barks, his voice hoarse, as he turns back just enough to swing a hand straight across Louis’ face, nothing held back.

He doesn’t look back as he races down the corridor to the staircase, he just holds onto his stinging palm and ignores Louis’ call, letting the tears dribble down his cheeks.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

When Harry gets back to Niall’s estate, he lets go of everything he’s been holding in. He hurls himself onto the bed and screams into the pillow until he can't scream anymore. He knows he must look like a child throwing a temper tantrum, but at this point, caring is beyond him. His whole future had relied on that moment, had balanced precariously on the fence of whether or not he would be able to find his family. Now he’s on his own, and he has nowhere to turn to.

He doesn't even have Louis to talk to, not anymore, because Louis had turned out to be a prick. Stupid, rude Louis who made Harry fall for him, who didn't have the slightest bit of decency to be honest with Harry.

He's throwing his clothing into his bag when there's a knock at the door. He’s angrily throwing the items of clothing Niall bought him into his bag when there’s a knock on the door. Harry already knows who it’s going to be.

“Go _away_ , Louis.” He tries to growl, but his voice is hoarse from crying and cracks. Pathetic.

The door opens, and Harry whirls toward it, readying himself to throw a shiny, leather boot at Louis, when he comes face-to-face with the queen.

“Oh.” He drops his hand to his side. “I – sorry, I thought you were –“

“I know who you thought I was,” she says, and her voice is softer now, less stern than when she’d spoken to Louis. Harry feels his body warm from the inside out. “Who are _you_?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Harry admits.

The queen sighs, long and defeated, and she crosses the room to stand near the window.

“Love, I’m getting older, and I’m tired of being tricked and conned into believing things that are never true. It's painful, to get your hopes up and then have them dashed.”

“I never wanted to trick you,” Harry says. He can hear the darkness in his own voice and he hates it, hates that Louis has made him feel this way.

“And I’m guessing you never wanted the money either?” She asks.

“No, I – I just want to know whether or not I belong to a family,” he purses his lips, pinching the knuckle of his finger, “to _your_ family.”

There’s a moment where the two of them don’t speak, and there’s no sound but the wind outside brushing along the window pane, but Harry thinks he can feel a spark of familiarity as he looks at the queen, warm like sunbeams and as heavy as a fur coat. He thinks he can see it in the queen’s eyes as she stares back at him.

“What is that?” She says, startling the air around them, and points to the necklace around Harry’s neck.

Harry glances down as he fingers the familiar necklace, his lips forming into a small smile.

“I’ve had it for as long as I can remember. It was all I had when I went to the orphanage.”

The queen watches him for what feels like a lifetime, then asks, “Can I see it?”

He removes the necklace from his neck and places it into her hand.

“It was our secret,” she whispers, trailing her fingers over the piece of jewelry. She looks up at Harry, meeting his uncertain eyes, and gives him a watery smile. “Me and my Harry.”

A pair of shaking arms settle around his shoulders and he buries his face into his mother’s – his _mother’s_ – neck, the choked sobs he’d let out earlier coming back to him in a rush.

They hold onto each other for a long time, unwilling to let go of the only thing of their family that remains. Harry can tell she’s crying when he feels a wet patch through his shirt, but he doesn’t say anything, because she’s got a few tears on the shoulder of her dress as well.

With his arms around his mother’s waist, holding her as close to him as he can, Harry’s mind flashes through a slew of memories snaking their way back to his consciousness. He can remember the smell of his mother’s perfume, when he’d accidentally spilt the entire bottle onto the rug in their foyer. He recalls Gemma, his beautiful, smart, annoying sister chasing him around the palace with two shades of lipstick in her hands. He can feel the heat of the fireplace in the dining room, and the softness of his feather-down mattress beneath him as he drifts off to sleep.

The relief he feels is so overwhelming that Harry cries for as long as his mother will allow him, her fingers brushing back his hair and her voice soothing away the nightmares he’s been running from for the last ten years.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

“You definitely look good in red, I have no idea what Liam was bloody talking about,” Niall says, watching Harry pivot in front of the mirrors around him.

He turns back to Niall with a smile, his dimples peeking through. The skinny burgundy tie balances out the color contrast of the black jacket and pants, but Harry’s favorite part of the outfit is the shoes: a pair of matching leather boots that probably cost half of London. He looks good. He looks _really_ good.

As he’s climbing the staircase that leads up to his mother’s quarters – fuck, his _mother_ , he’ll never get used to saying that – he nearly trips over himself when he spots Louis trailing down the opposite way.

“Louis,” Harry says, cringing at the catch in his voice.

Louis slows to a stop in front of Harry, his eyes saying something beyond what leaves his lips.

“Hello.”

For a moment, Harry wonders why Louis’ here – not for _him_ , surely. It suddenly dawns on him that Louis must’ve come to receive his reward. The reward that’s apparently worth more than Harry. The reward that’s worth more than the possibility of something that makes Harry’s heart ache.

“Did you get what you came for?” He swallows shakily, his gaze falling to the floor.

Louis pauses, as if he’s searching for the right words.

“Harry, I –“

“Young man,” a voice calls from the bottom of the staircase. One of the guards stares up at the two of them, watching the exchange. “You will address Prince Harold as _Your Highness_.”

“No, that’s not necessary –” Harry starts to say, but Louis interrupts.

“It’s fine,” Louis mutters. When Louis looks back to Harry, his eyes are like icicles.

“Your Highness,” Louis says, kneeling down to the floor. The action seems so unfamiliar that Harry has to keep himself from practically shouting at Louis to stop being ridiculous and stand back up. “I’m glad you found what you were looking for.”

As Louis stands, Harry tries to keep his composure.

“I’m glad you did, too.”

Louis looks at Harry once more, his eyes dim compared to the piercing blue Harry’s grown used to.

“Right,” Louis hesitates. “Well, then… Goodbye,” he murmurs, keeping his eyes away from Harry’s. “Your Highness.”

Louis rushes down the staircase without a backward glance, gone before Harry has a chance to stop him.

"Goodbye," Harry whispers, and it's so soft he can barely hear his own voice.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

His coronation ball is more extravagant than he‘d expected, glowing chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and elegant decorations that shine and sparkle in the light. He only knows maybe one-tenth of the attendees – he’s a bit worried he’ll get lost in the masses of people if he leaves his mother’s side.

Harry is peering around the cluster of dancers and people mingling when his mother steps up behind him. She rests her head against his shoulder.

“Who are you looking for?” she asks, just loud enough to hear over the constant chatter.

“No one,” he answers, turning toward her.

“Harold Edward Styles, do not lie to me,” she says, smiling at him. She bumps his hip with hers, unexpectedly playful. “You know exactly who you’re looking for.”

He pretends to be shocked for a moment, because he’s never told her anything about Louis, but somehow she still knows. He supposes mothers never lose their intuition, even if they haven’t seen their children for ten years.

“Niall has a rather large mouth when it comes to gossip.” Anne rolls her eyes.

Harry almost laughs. _Oh._

“He’s not here,” he says, dropping her gaze. “He’s probably on a boat to America by now. Planning to chase his dreams with his reward.”

His mother watches him, eyes dark with concern, then reaches over to take his hands in her own.

“Harry, I want you to be happy. More than anything else, that’s what I want. Even if it means not having you by my side.” She squeezes Harry’s hand, taking in a deep breath. “I know what it feels like to lose you, and I’d never wish that upon anyone.”

Harry holds his breath as she lets out the next string of words.

“He didn’t take the reward. I tried, but he refused to take it. He told me that I couldn’t give him what he really wanted.” There's a surprising fondness on her face.

The very air around them seems to pause despite the countless people in motion around them. Harry stares at his mother, eyes wide with hope.

"I told him to come to the ball, even if he wouldn't stay for the ceremony," she says, cradling Harry's cheek. "He should be here."

When Harry keeps still, she nearly pushes him away from her, out into the crowd.

"Go, darling. Go find him. I'll be here, if you need me."

That's all he needs to hear before he's pushing through the hundreds – there _must_ be hundreds – of dukes and millionaires and socialites, to find the one man that didn’t need to see a crown on Harry’s head to think he was important.

 

After an hour of scrambling around the ball, unable to find Louis, Harry retreats to the gardens outside of the palace.

He can't really blame Louis for not coming. After the way Harry had treated him, had refused his explanations, and hit him, bloody _hit him_ , Louis has every right to hate him.

The stars light up the parts of the night sky that aren’t illuminated by the lanterns lining the streets of Paris and Harry finds himself enraptured. He watches the moon reflect off of the Seine as he walks over the bridge settled in the middle of the gardens. The river glimmers beneath his feet. He’s a bit transfixed by the sight.

“Harry?”

Almost falling over the railing, Harry turns to see Louis watching him from only a few steps away.

Louis' suit looks like it's been custom-made for him, the way it accentuates his form. His eyes are as bright as the moon on the water and his cheeks are as dark as the dye on Harry’s boots. He seems unsure, with his hands in his pockets, like he can’t see what he’s done to Harry. Like he can’t see that Harry is so bloody in love with him.

Harry wants to sink his teeth into him.

“I’m sorry –“ Louis starts, his voice laced with worry.

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“ Harry moves a step closer.

“You had every right to –“

“She said you didn’t take the money –“ The two of them take another step.

“I didn’t want the money, I just –” Louis stutters, striding over the last few feet forward so that the two of them are chest to chest. “I just wanted you.”

Harry falters, his breath caught in his throat.

“Want _ed_?”

Louis shakes his head, bringing his hand up to Harry’s neck.

“ _Want_. God, I want.”

He closes the gap between them and Harry practically melts into him, a relieved sigh leaving his lips as they press against Louis’. Harry’s sure he’s never wanted anything more in his life.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

The second time Harry’s on a boat, it’s much, much larger than the first. It has sails and a crew and an entire deck made for _just_ dining. He doesn’t know why they need such a big, lavish boat – they’re only using it to cross back over the Channel – but he still appreciates how beautiful it is.

The coronation was exactly as Harry had expected: boring, for the most part, besides the actual crowning. The best part of the ceremony was that he could see Louis standing in the front row during the entire thing. They made faces at each other, trying their best not to giggle as Anne spoke – they had failed miserably.

Now, as he’s settling into his quarters for the night, Harry wonders if the evening was all just a dream.

He’s in the middle of removing his waistcoat when there’s a knock on the door.

A disheveled Louis, clad in the trousers he’d worn to the ceremony and his untucked button-down, reveals himself from behind the door.

“Hello,” Harry says and smiles, sitting down on his temporary bed.

Louis closes the door behind him, the “click” soft against the engines rumbling beneath them.

“I thought I ought to come say goodnight.” He glances at Harry, his eyes mischievous.

Harry nods, biting his lip as he watches Louis.

“So, yeah. Goodnight.” Louis doesn’t move, his back against the door.

“Goodnight,” Harry answers in a whisper.

They stare at each other for a moment, waiting for one of them to disrupt the bubble they’ve entered.

Harry tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at Louis.

“You didn’t really come down here to say goodnight, did you?” he says.

“Guilty.” Louis grins, then pounces on Harry like a lioness after its prey.

He kisses Harry, soft and gentle, and Harry’s certain he must be floating in mid-air. His stomach flips and twists and he can taste the champagne on Louis’ tongue, can smell the cologne he’d borrowed from Zayn. Louis’ legs straddle Harry’s hips, keeping him pinned to the bed, and Harry wonders what in the world he’s ever done to deserve this.

The heat of Louis’ body makes Harry shiver. He can feel the muscles in Louis’ thighs on his own and the weight of Louis on him has him practically whimpering into Louis’ lips.

He’s wanted this since the moment he saw Louis descending the stairs toward him that first day, even if he’d refused to admit it in the beginning. He can remember how stupidly gorgeous he thought Louis was, how Harry had felt the need to kiss and kick Louis at the same time. Somewhere along the line, the need to kiss him must’ve grown a bit stronger.

The need to kick Louis is still there, though.

“So. Heir to the throne,” Louis says, sitting up on Harry’s lap.

Harry hums. He still doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Are you worried?” Louis tugs on the hair on the back of Harry’s neck.

He doesn’t want to think about it too much. He’s not king material, this he’s known this all his life. He was never team captain, never the leader. He’s never been important enough to be the leader. How the hell is he supposed to run an entire country?

“I don’t think I can do it,” he admits. He averts his gaze from Louis’, but Louis brings his eyes right back, grasping Harry’s chin in his fingers.

“Harry, I have known you for a whopping _four days_.” Louis drops his hand to Harry’s, holding it tight. “And I have never been more sure that you’re going to make the best king England’s ever seen.”

Harry shakes his head, holding back a smile.

“You’re going to be the next King Arthur,” Louis says, eyes widening. “They’ll talk about you for thousands of years. ‘King Harry was the shepherd of a generation! A role-model for years to come!’”

Harry brings Louis closer, their foreheads meeting as Harry whispers.

“And will they talk about his partner?” He feels Louis’ eyelashes flutter against his cheek. “’Louis Tomlinson, the reason we had a King Harry in the first place.’”

“Of course,” Louis says, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders.

“Can I ask you something?” Harry asks, quiet.

“Anything.” Harry can feel Louis’ breath on his lips.

He leans away, just enough to meet Louis’ gaze.

“How did you know? That I was him? Me. Whatever.”

Harry rolls his eyes when Louis smiles.

“The story about the boy and the wall opening that you told Niall,” Louis says as he watches Harry’s chest rise and fall. “It was me. I mean, I was the boy.”

Harry falters.

Louis? The wheels begin to turn in Harry’s head. The boy was Louis. The boy who opened the wall and helped Harry escape – helped Harry and _his mother_ escape. He’d kept Harry and the only family he has left safe.

All of a sudden, the scenes from his nightmares shift into new light. A face he’d never registered before plasters itself in his head. Shadows from rioters and orange light from flames cloud his vision. Then Louis’ face is there, grabbing Harry’s hand and guiding him to a small opening in the wall of Harry’s nursery.

He’d protected him. Louis had protected him.

Harry blinks out of his daydream and meets Louis’ eyes. He brings both of his hands around Louis’ face and kisses him so intensely that it knocks them onto the floor.

“Har _ry_ ,” Louis whines, pinned to the floor beneath Harry.

“ _You_.” Harry laughs, kissing Louis’ entire face one bit at a time. “You saved me.”

Harry thinks he can see a blush rising onto Louis’ cheeks. He wants to kiss every single inch of him.

Pulling Louis up from the floor and back onto the bed, Harry begins to shed Louis’ shirt from his shoulders. Louis looks up from the mattress as Harry does the same, his face reddening from Louis’ intent gaze.

With their naked chests pressed together, Harry kisses Louis’ lips like they’re delicate and fragile. He kisses Louis’ whole body like this, at least the parts he can put his own mouth on. When his lips stop at the waistband of Louis’ trousers, Louis rests his hand in Harry’s hair, catching his attention.

“Are you sure?” He asks.

Harry bites Louis’ hip in reply.

Before Harry has a chance to completely remove Louis’ trousers, Louis tugs on Harry’s hair. Harry has to hold back a strangled moan.

He watches Harry for a moment, like he’s waiting for Harry to run, but Harry just stares straight back at him. He’s nervous, but he’s unwavering about this. He wants this. He wants _Louis_.

“I don’t want you to do this just because you think you need to,” Louis says, his voice small.

Harry clambers up, perching himself on Louis’ hips.

“Do _you_ want to?” He whispers, not meeting Louis’ eyes.

“Of course I do, what kind of question is that?” Louis places his hands on Harry’s hips, squeezing them reassuringly. The action makes Harry whimper. “I just – you’re so – _you_ and I’m… me. I’m not royal, I’m not rich. I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to back of out of this, is what I’m saying.”

“Have you gone mad?”

Louis blinks up at Harry like he’s speaking gibberish.

Harry sighs, exasperated.

“You’re amazing, Louis, but you are a bloody idiot.” Harry trails his hands down Louis’ sides, one hand straying to grasp onto Louis’ fingers. He tangles them together, his heart beating so hard he’s sure Louis can hear it.

“I’ve been infatuated with you since you caught me dancing in that dusty, old ballroom. I hated that you just walked all over me, and I let you. And I’ve wanted to kiss you since the morning we woke up on that ruddy boat. And when we were sat in that restaurant talking, I think I could feel myself falling for you.”

Harry brings Louis’ hand to his lips, kissing the tips gingerly. His face feels like it’s seconds from setting ablaze.

“What?” Louis says, his voice barely a whisper.

“I’m bloody in love with you, Louis.” Harry takes in a deep breath, meeting Louis’ eyes. “I didn’t mean to be, but.” He shrugs, a sheepish smile on his lips.

Louis tugs Harry down with the hand that’s entangled with Harry’s and presses a swift kiss on Harry’s lips. He kisses up Harry’s red cheeks until he reaches his ear, and Harry can feel his lips form into a smile.

“I’m bloody in love with you, too, princess.”

Elation surges through him and Harry pulls Louis into another kiss as he goes to undo the button on Louis’ trousers. Their lips move together, nipping at each other’s lips and pulling one another closer. Louis’ tongue traces over Harry’s bottom lip and a moan passes from his own mouth to Louis’.

Eagerness guiding most of Harry’s actions, he moves off of Louis’ hips to tug the item of clothing away and continues to kiss down Louis’ neck and chest.

He's absolutely gorgeous, his skin is soft and his muscles tighten in response when Harry glides his fingers over him. Harry never wants to stop touching him.

Harry kisses Louis’ neck, sucking on his skin and leaving marks behind. Soft whines leave Louis’ lips and head straight to Harry’s cock.

When Louis unbuttons Harry’s trousers, eager to get them both naked, Harry goes rigid. He’s never done this before, never been naked with anyone else – let alone had sex with anyone. He’s got goosebumps all over him and a slow shiver runs down his spine.

“Okay?” Louis asks.

Harry is _so_ in love with him.

After a moment, regaining himself, Harry nods surely.

“Nervous.” A rueful smile lifts his lips.

“Me, too.” Louis smiles back before pressing a reassuring kiss to Harry’s mouth.

With newfound courage, Harry lets Louis remove his trousers and throw them to the floor. It leaves him completely naked, spread out on the bed for Louis to see. He grows red with apprehension as Louis’ gaze drifts over him. He can feel his heartbeat thudding, loud in his chest.

“God, Harry,” Louis whispers, hushed as he kisses along Harry’s collarbone.

Louis’ hands are everywhere, trailing and caressing over his heated skin. He can barely keep his mind focused.

He lets out a shaky moan when Louis grips his cock, gently stroking him and swiping his thumb along the head.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, clutching onto the duvet.

Louis straddles him again, the gentle touch of his fingers on Harry’s cock distracting him from the kiss Louis presses to his lips. Harry grips onto Louis’ hair with one hand and grasps the cover of the bed beneath him with the other.

“Feel good?” Louis drags his lips over Harry’s cheek, whispering softly.

Harry nods, useless.

He’s starting to work his hips up in sync with Louis’ hand when Louis repositions his hand around Harry, and Harry glances down. When he sees Louis’ hand around both his and Harry’s cock, tugging them off together, he has to hold back a loud moan.

“Lou,” he whines, unable to look away. He can feel his own cock pressed up against Louis’ and it makes all of the blood rush from his head.

Harry’s pretty sure he isn’t making any sense at all, rambles of “yes please Louis fucking hell” tumbling from his lips. Louis giggles breathlessly at his nonsense, squeezing Harry’s fingers with one hand and then brushing the sweaty strands of hair from his face. The expanding feeling in Harry’s chest is the most intense thing Harry’s ever felt and he never wants it stop.

His orgasm hits him so hard that he’s sure he blacks out for a few seconds. The last thing he knows is Louis babbling about how gorgeous Harry is, then he opens his eyes to Louis’ bright eyes above him and two streaks of come on his stomach.

Harry pulls Louis down for a quick, hard press of their lips.

Louis’ breathing is as labored as Harry’s when he drops onto the mattress beside him. Harry can feel Louis’ heartbeat as he lays his head against his chest and it makes him smile. He likes knowing that he’s not the only one overwhelmed by all of this.

And with Louis’ arms around him, Harry doesn’t feel so alone anymore.

 

♥♡♥♡♥♡♥

 

It’s Niall’s own fault. That’s what Harry’s sticking to, because it’s the truth. People shouldn’t just barge into other people’s rooms without _knocking first_ , it’s just not how things work. It’s Niall’s fault that he witnessed a naked Harry and Louis curled up together on Harry’s bed.

“I came to wake the two of ya up and what do I find?” Niall chomps down angrily on a mouthful of food. “Two naked arses staring back at me. No decency, I’m telling ya.”

“You should’ve knocked first.” Louis rolls his eyes, hiding his smirk as he spreads jam on a piece of toast.

“ _No. Decency_.” Niall glares at Louis, picking up a croissant from the middle of the table.

“And what’s worse,” Liam interjects, “is that he had to come to _our_ room and wake us up just to tell us exactly how indecent it was.”

Harry tries not to laugh, but a giggle escapes him. Niall throws a crepe at him.

“Hey.” Harry pouts.

Louis grins up at him and Harry can’t help smiling back.

“So where’re you lot off to after we get back to good ol’ England?” Niall says, directing the question to Zayn.

“Not sure. Liam’s got a cousin up in Sheffield, suppose we could shack up there for a while.” Zayn sips at the tea in his cup, looking over the top of his newspaper.

Harry looks back and forth between Liam and Zayn, blinking, confused, at the two of them.

“You’re not…” Harry furrows his eyebrows, dropping his spoon on the table, though there’s bits of egg on it. “You’re not staying at the palace?”

Liam smiles sadly at Harry just as Niall’s pug hops onto his lap.

“Daisy, down,” Niall frowns at her, but she only snorts and paws at the tablecloth. Niall rolls his eyes, but smiles fondly. “Ruddy dog. C’mere, ya pooch.”

After he pats his legs and she leaves Liam for Niall, Liam turns back to Harry.

“Unless you want three new roommates,” Liam shrugs.

Three new…? Harry was only talking about Liam and Zayn, not Niall. He’d guessed Niall _had_ a home in England, if he didn’t already have living quarters in the palace. Why would Harry –

His thoughts halt when his eyes move to Louis.

“You don’t want to live with – I mean, you don’t – Louis?” He stumbles over his words, trying to make a sentence of his thoughts.

“Harry,” Louis answers, raising his eyebrows.

“You’re welcome to – to live in the palace with me,” Harry turns to Liam, “All of you are. I mean, I might have to ask my mother about rooms and things but I… I’d really like it if –,” Harry cuts himself off, biting his lip nervously.

“Well, we wouldn’t want to _impose_ , or anything.”

Harry looks up at Louis. His eyes gleam with mischief.

“But if you insist,” Louis says, smiling at Harry with an intensity that makes his heart beat twice as fast.

Harry smiles back, bright as the sun, and knows that he has a home.

 


End file.
